


Out of the Fog

by Duck_Life



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Holding Hands, Love Confessions, M/M, The Lonely - Freeform, martin loves spiders, movie quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: Jon tries to explain to Martin why he couldn't bear to leave him in the Lonely.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 125





	Out of the Fog

Gradually, shapes start to appear in the mist. Squares and rectangles, a big Tetris game shimmering slowly into the shape of the real world. The shapes turn into houses, bleak and blank at first but slowly filling in with color. Red brick facades, dull yellow porches. 

Little by little, the fog recedes.  _ Little cat feet _ , Jon thinks suddenly. The world solidifies around him once again. 

Nothing is more solid than his grip on Martin. He clings to the other man the whole time, fingers wrapped tightly in the fabric of his jacket, one arm around his shoulders and the other darting around every now and then to grasp Martin's hand, touch his face, grant him quiet reassurances that he is real and he is here.

They emerge in a quiet neighborhood, and Jon might have thought they were still trapped but for the soft glow emanating from a few of the windows. Early risers starting their day. Other people. 

Jon thinks, suddenly, of Herman Gorgoli's statement, how he'd wandered through that suburban nothingness for so long. (He glances at the nearest street sign to make sure it has a real name.) 

He thinks of Herman Gorgoli's experience inside the Lonely, and how he'd gotten out. 

"I love you," he tells Martin, clutching his hand. "I do love you, Martin. You know that, right?"

Martin shrugs. He feels solid enough, and the surrounding mist is nearly gone now, but he still looks… pale. Ephemeral. Like he's fading away. 

Jon blinks to make sure he isn't just…  _ Seeing _ right through him, but no. Martin looks a little bit like a ghost, and Jon almost smiles thinking about that first heart-to-heart back at the Institute. Almost. 

"I didn't think anybody loved me," Martin says, as matter-of-fact as if he were saying he didn't think there were any more sandwiches in the breakroom. 

"Well. I did. I do." Jon glances up, finds a bench where they can sit. "Come on," he tells Martin, guiding him still. 

They sit, basking in the solidness of the seat beneath them, the certainty that so many others have sat here, will sit here, waiting for buses and feeding birds and reading books. 

Martin starts crying again, but Jon's pretty sure that's a good sign. In his experience, Martin cries when he's scared and when he's sad. And that's better than the empty, bleak way he sounded in the fog. He strokes a hand gently through Martin's hair, feeling the damp where the mist still clings. 

"You're okay. I'm here," Jon says, trying to think of his next step. A big part of him actually believed Elias, didn't think he'd make it back out of the Lonely. But now he's here, and Martin's here. So now what?

He needs Martin to be okay. Martin is  _ here _ right now, is… safe, for the most part. But he's not okay. So. Step one. 

He thinks about nights spent in the tunnels with Daisy, picking apart asinine soap opera plots and pretending they don't feel like the walls are pressing in around them. Thinks of what she taught him about grounding himself, about bringing himself out of panic and trauma and dirt and mud. 

"Martin," he says, "can… can you tell me five things you can see?"

Martin laughs, a joyless sound. "You can see a lot more than that."

"I know, but… please. Humor me."

" _ Hmm _ ." Martin glances around, blinking away tears. "I see… I see a house. Bright blue shutters on it… bit tacky, actually." Jon squeezes his hand encouragingly. "A car in front of it. Could use a wash. And there's… I see…"

He glances down. 

"I can see my feet."

"Something besides yourself, Martin."

"A crack. In the sidewalk. Lots of cracks, actually, kind of… kind of looks like a spiderweb, heh." 

"Lovely," Jon says flatly.

"You asked what I can see," Martin points out. "Maybe it's like a… like a Rorschach test. The crack looks like a spiderweb. That bike stand over there looks like spider legs. That cloud? A tarantula,” he teases gently. 

He looks more himself now— there's more color in his cheeks, and his eyes are brighter. 

"You came in after me," he says, looking more and more awake. Alive. Real. "Why?"

"I already told you."

"You thought I might be lost," Martin remembers. "But I wasn't. I wasn't lost. I knew…  _ exactly _ where I was. And I knew that I was alone, and that no one was coming for me."

"Someone was."

"I know that now," Martin says. "But while I was in there… I  _ knew _ there was nobody. After all this… doubt, all these conflicting fears and feelings… that kind of certainty was… nice." 

"Are you certain of me?"

"I don't know," Martin says, turning to look at him. Their hands are still clenched tightly, keeping each other tethered. "I think I want to be."

"Alright." Jon sighs, feeling his shoulders relax a little bit. Martin is here. He's getting closer to okay. Lukas is dead, and Martin is here with him and things are okay right now. "But… you're not completely right. I came to get you because… because  _ I  _ didn't want to lose  _ you _ . Because I love you."

"Mm," Martin says. "You said that before."

"You don't believe me."

Martin shrugs again. "I s'pose… I believe that you believe it," he says. "But well… I mean, I heard what Peter said. He was evil, sure, but he was right about some things. Like you and I… how well do we  _ actually  _ know each other? Do you really love  _ me _ , or just… the image you've built of me?"

Jon breathes out sharply through his nose. It's… a  _ fair  _ question, even if it makes his remaining ribs ache. 

"Martin," Jon says, "you like jigsaw puzzles, right?"

"Uh… if I'm in the mood for them?"

"Okay," Jon says. "Okay. And when you're working on a puzzle… when you're fitting each piece together, bit by bit, matching the colors and the details… I mean, it's  _ nice _ , right?"

"I… suppose?"

"You can tell the puzzle's going to be beautiful long before you click the final piece into place," Jon says. "Can't you?"

Martin splutters. "Are you saying you love me because I have a passing interest in jigsaw puzzles?"

"N-no," Jon says. "It's that… you're right. There's a lot we don't know about each other. But of the things I do know… the pieces I've already put together… I'm really, really enjoying working on the puzzle. And I want to keep doing it. And it… it would have broken me if I couldn't be with you again."

Martin looks at him. "What pieces?"

"Hm?"

"What pieces have you put together?" Martin says. 

"Oh," Jon says. "I, ah… well. For one thing, spiders."

"Spiders."

"I  _ hate _ spiders," Jon says. "I don't care if the 'normal' ones aren't connected to the Web, I despise them all. They freak me the fuck out, Martin. And… and whenever I see one… if you're around, you know, and I can call you to come take care of it… and you put a little index card under it and a paper cup on top and you carry it safely outside, baby-talking the damn thing the whole time."

Martin doesn't look impressed. "You love me because I'm your own personal exterminator."

"Wha— no!" Jon says. "Because… because you can be so gentle with something I find so terrifying. God, even  _ after _ learning about the power of the Web you  _ still  _ treat every creepy, crawling spider like a… friend. You look at something… monstrous, and ugly—" Martin starts to protest. "To me! Monstrous and ugly to  _ me _ . And… you love it. It's extraordinary."

Martin hums, looking out over the still-quiet street. Signs of life are starting to pop up— a bee bumbles through someone's garden, a woman in a pink dress climbs in her car and drives off somewhere, maybe to work or to brunch with friends. It occurs to Jon that he doesn't even know what day of the week it— Tuesday. It's Tuesday. 

"There's more," Jon says, the words starting to tumble out of him. He wonders for a moment if this is how people feel when giving their statements, but he hurriedly pushes the thought away. "You… you adore anything retro. Cassettes, yeah, but also record players and old phones. Vintage jumpers, old 80s windbreakers. You like things with history in them, but you don't even need to know what that history is. It's just enough that it's… there."

"Hey," Martin says, looking a little upset. "Hey, don't… don't Look at me."

"I'm… not," Jon says honestly. "I'm just… listening. I've always listened."

"To the tapes?"

"To  _ you _ , Martin," Jon says, not sure when he started to cry. Loving Martin is like getting filled up with helium, choking off his words, lifting him higher and higher and the thing holding him on solid ground isn't gravity but Martin's hand, still solid and warm on his. "I've always listened to  _ you _ . And I just… I want to keep doing it. I want to keep working on the puzzle. Because… I really like the picture so far."

For a long moment, Martin is quiet. And Jon starts to wonder if this is all he gets: a confession, a conversation and then the end of the line. He refused to acknowledge Martin's office crush, and now it's too late.  _ Thanks for saving me from the Lonely, seeya. _

But Martin just laughs and leans his head against Jon's shoulder. He is warm and real and here. 

"That… was beautiful," Martin says, pressing into Jon's side. It's a feeling completely familiar and totally new at the same time. Jon basks in it. "Now I just feel… inadequate. All I can think of is the speech from the end of 'When Harry Met Sally.'"

Jon laughs softly. "I've never seen it." 

"Oh," Martin says. "In that case, this comes from the heart: I love you, Jon. I love how it takes you half an hour to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you look at me like I'm nuts. I love that you're the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep… and it's not because I'm Lonely, it's because, Jon, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." 

And they're both laughing and crying, and holding each other, and sitting on a bench in some suburb in the middle of nowhere and nobody knows them and in this instant they are safe, and they are together, and they are loved, and they are in love. 

"I feel like I want to do some grand gesture now," Martin says. "Why don't you run into a butcher's shop and I'll come and rescue you from the Flesh?"

"Perfect," Jon says, breathing deep, full breaths. Holding Martin not because he needs to lead them out of some maze or fresh terror, not because he's afraid Martin might be ripped from him at any second, but because Martin is warm, and lovely, and right here next to him for the time being. 

In an hour or two, they'll reengage with the Real World. They'll call Basira, figure out what happened at the Institute, sort out their next step. 

But right now? It's enough. It's enough to just be here, together, safe— or at least as safe as they can fool themselves into being. It's enough. 


End file.
